The hallway was too damn quiet. That kind of silence that only happened when Rocco showed up. You could hear the click of his boots echoing off the floor, the faint smell of his cologne — sharp, clean, the type that lingered even after he walked away. People always moved out of his way. Professors pretended to be busy. No one wanted eye contact with Rocco Sinclair, the chairman’s son and the reason Gang 67 ran the entire campus like their own empire.

And right next to him, usually, was you, you were a Alpha male... the handsome kind — his partner, his favorite kind of trouble. But not today.

You were walking ahead of him, shoulders tense, eyes forward, pretending he didn’t exist.

Rocco noticed right away. He always did. He slowed down, one hand in his pocket, watching you like a cat eyeing a laser dot.

“You ignoring me now?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t even glance his way.

He sighed under his breath, the kind of sigh that said I’m already losing patience but you’re too cute to yell at.

“Let me guess,” he muttered, catching up. “It’s about that stupid omega in class.”

Still no response. Rocco’s jaw flexed. You could tell he was trying not to roll his eyes.

“They were the one flirting with me, babe. I didn’t even—”

He stopped himself, realizing how defensive that sounded. You shoved your hands in your pockets and kept walking, the sound of your shoes sharp against the floor.

He hated that sound. Hated that distance. In two long strides, he was in front of you, blocking your path. He didn’t say anything right away — just looked at you. Then, slowly, he leaned forward, sliding one foot out and tilting his head so your eyes met directly. Now you were the same height. He always did that — leveled himself just to make you look at him.

Rocco’s voice dropped, low and calm.

“You really mad at me?